


Christmas

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Crack, Established Relationship, It's really just porn, John Loves Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Porn, Porn Without Plot, Porny porn porn, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock is always a bit worried, and fairy lights, so much porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 04:54:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2838743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is very clearly drunk.  He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and the extra tail of fairy lights from their small tree is draped through his hair and across his shoulders, giving him the very (unrealistic) appearance of having a halo.  His cheeks and the tip of his nose have warmed a lovey pink from the liquor, and in the muted light of the sitting room, backed by sparkling fairy lights and the shine of ornaments, he looks soft and ethereal, as if he came from another plane of existence.  Rumpled t-shirt and worn pyjama pants aside.</p><p>John feels a lump rise in his throat, and it hits him, again, that this beautiful, infuriating creature is his. Completely, one-hundred percent his.</p><p>“John, Mycroft wasted his money. This is aw—” Sherlock looks up to find John staring at him, open-mouthed.  “What?” He asks, his nose crumpling again in that way that is only his, a way that always makes John want to press his lips between his eyebrows.</p><p>“Nothing, love,”  John smiles slightly.  “But you’re adorable.  Terrible scotch aside.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and John's first Christmas at 221B, when they've finally become what they were meant to.
> 
> Really, just an excuse to write Christmas-y smut.
> 
> Merry Christmas.
> 
> Also, SHAMELESS PROMOTION: follow me on tumblr if you are so inclined. [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)
> 
> **** NEW!
> 
> [thetwelfthpanda](http://thetwelfthpanda.tumblr.com/)did an absolutely ADORABLE drunken kiss pic request an used this story. So cute. Go to her page. GO NOW! [Dunken Kiss](http://thetwelfthpanda.tumblr.com/post/128541627953/drunken-kiss)

“I haven’t seen snow like this since I was in New York.” John stares out the window onto Baker Street, where the snow has been falling steadying for several hours.

 

“When have you ever been to New York?” Sherlock grunts from the sofa, where he is lazily rosining his violin bow.

 

“Went on a trip to Niagara Falls with some friends in uni,” John takes a sip of his scotch. For 10 quid, it’s not too bad. “Don’t go to New York in December, I’ll tell you that.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Niagara Falls, Sherlock!” John turns to the couch incredulously. “You know, one of the wonders of the worl—nevermind.” John wisely gives up when Sherlock looks back at him blankly. “Glad I went to Tesco on my way home. We may be stuck here a few days.”

 

“Mmmm.”

 

“If the roads aren’t clear, they can’t deliver take-away.”

 

“Obviously, John.”

 

“Yes, well, you didn’t think to go to the shops when I was at the surgery.”

 

“Boring.”

 

“Mmmm, I know,” John reaches out and ruffles Sherlock’s curls gently, still damp from his scalding shower. He smiles and warmth blossoms in his chest as Sherlock pushes his head up into John’s touch, ever so slightly. Sherlock is still hesitant to initiate affectionate touch—although he’s gotten better over the months—but he reacts positively every time John touches him. And after five years of craving and neediness John has never experienced for another person before, he’s remarkably happy to receive even the smallest bit of encouragement.

 

“Really going to screw up Christmas Eve travel plans,” John plops down in his worn chair, groaning a bit. He’s loathe to admit it, but he’s finally starting to feel forty-three.

 

“Mmmm…good thing we have nowhere to go then.”

 

“Right,” John is quite thrilled about that. Mrs. Hudson is away visiting her sister, and the Holmses decided to spend the holiday on a Mediterranean cruise. They’d apologized for not being able to host Christmas dinner, but John was relieved. After the last Christmas they spent there, when Mary, or Andrea or whatever-the-fuck her real name is was still in his life, and he was trapped by the impending birth of his child and Sherlock’s and Mycroft’s pleas that he had to stay for his own safety. It feels like it’s been longer than a year since that horrible period in his life started to come to an end, a horrible period starting when Sherlock jumped off the roof of Bart’s and ending when Sherlock found him bound and gagged in an abandoned building. He’d hugged John then, holding him for dear life and apologizing over and over for the mess he’d made of his life. John had responded with a kiss. Their first.

 

And then things got better. Much, much better.

 

John is looking forward to a quiet Christmas with Sherlock. He’d always loved Christmas as a child, then came to dread it as he grew older and felt alone, which was exacerbated by the yearly return of a holiday when one was supposed to be with those they loved. Sherlock changed that, that very first day.

 

And this would be their first Christmas together as what they were meant to be since he first offered Sherlock his phone at St. Bart’s.

 

John chuckles a bit to himself and takes another sip of scotch. He’s happy. Finally.

 

“What if Lestrade calls with a case?” Sherlock interrupts his reverie.

 

“Well, love, I don’t think Greg’s going to be going anywhere in this either.” John catches Sherlock’s soft smile at the endearment out of the corner of his eye. They flow so easily out of John’s mouth, and Sherlock soaks them up like the sun. “So…” John gets up again, walks to the kitchen to refill his drink and get one for Sherlock. “Why don’t you have a bit of scotch with me, which is decidedly not as terrible as I thought it would be, and we can get drunk and decorate the tree and fool around a bit before bed.”

 

“Tree?”

 

“Sherlock, have you looked around the room at all in the past week? I got us a tree and it’s been in the corner for four days!”

 

Sherlock abruptly sits up and looks into the corner of the sitting room where a small evergreen tree has been sitting since John lugged it up the stairs last Friday. A box full of ornaments from Harrods—the reward money for “Mary’s” capture has left John a relatively wealthy man—sits under the wooden table John’s set it on. He even found a small glass skull for Sherlock. John is far more sentimental than he’d like to admit.

 

Sherlock only makes a face, his nose scrunching in a way that John can finally admit he finds absolutely adorable. “We don’t have ornaments.”

 

“I bought some.” John heads over to the fridge. “There’s lasagna in the freezer.   I could heat it up.”

 

“We can’t have lasagna and scotch...” Sherlock has made his way over to the small tree in the corner, and is staring at it as if he’d never seen a Christmas tree before.

 

“Says who?”

 

“Why did you get a tree? We never had one,” he pauses, just briefly. “…before.”

 

“Because,” John sets the aluminum pan of frozen lasagna on the counter and turns the oven on. “It’s about time we had a real Christmas, don’t you think genius?” He heads back out into the sitting room and sets the two tumblers of scotch down on the coffee table. “I think we deserve to be a little childish and silly, don’t you?”

 

John steps up behind Sherlock and wraps his arms around his too-thin waist. Sherlock jumps a bit—as he always does—then relaxes back into John’s embrace with a sigh. John presses his nose into Sherlock’s back and inhales deeply. Sherlock’s silky robe smells like cigarettes (he’ll have to find those and toss them), but the rest of him smells warm and citrusy and a bit like the rosin he just had in his hands. Sherlock is all hard lines and planes, too thin and bony, but he melts and fits into John’s softer form perfectly.

 

John has no idea how he lasted so long without this.

 

Sherlock reaches out and flicks one pine branch. “I suppose,” he says, thoughtfully. “We haven’t had the best Christmases, have we?”

 

“No, darling.” John kisses his shoulder through his robe just as the oven beeps that it’s preheated. “So we’ll start a new tradition, yeah? Only good Christmases from here out.”

 

“You bought ornaments?” Sherlock’s voice has gone soft, the way it does on rare occasions when he lets a wall down, usually only when they’re alone together. Something has chipped a hole in a barrier.

 

“In the box,” John rubs both hands over Sherlock’s belly. Like Sherlock himself, it’s much softer and warmer than it looks. John loves touching it, resting his head on it with Sherlock’s long legs wrapped around his back.

 

“Can I see?”

 

“Of course, my love.” John plants one more kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder, then lets him go so he can pop the lasagna in the oven. Sherlock gracefully plops (can one plop gracefully? Sherlock can, John thinks) on the floor and pulls the box to himself. John watches, a bit wistfully, as Sherlock pulls the glass skull out of the box and gently unwraps it. He makes a sound that John could really only describe as a “coo” as he pulls it from the tissue paper.

 

John has seen a myriad of different Sherlocks since they embarked on their relationship. Beneath the cold exterior lurks a warm, caring man who is simply afraid of loss. John’s heart aches whenever he thinks about how many times he’d hurt Sherlock, even without knowing it. He was shocked almost to the point of breakdown when John first took him in his arms and gently kissed him. Occasionally he is still shocked when John kisses him or takes his hand or pulls him down into their bed. John is sure Sherlock lives every day in fear that their life is a dream, or a hallucination, or that John is just using him to fill a void until he finds someone more suitable.

 

The fact is, all the other someones in John’s life filled Sherlock’s void. He is a smart enough man to know that his girlfriends were simply an attempt to fulfill a desire for romance; that his marriage was only because there was nothing else after Sherlock jumped. Hell, John is sure he wouldn’t have given Mary a second thought if Sherlock had been there. It had taken him a long time, too long, to accept that not only did he have everything he needed in Sherlock, but that Sherlock was more than willing to give it to him.

 

So much wasted time. And John tries his hardest every damn day to assure Sherlock that he’s not going anywhere. That what they have, their _them_ , is all John could ever want. He won’t lie, it’s both humbling and exhilarating to know how much Sherlock fears his loss. But it also aches, knowing that he can’t fully squash the fear that plagues Sherlock. But John will try his damnedest, do everything he can to show his precious Sherlock that what they have is the most important thing in his life.

Sherlock is, for all his rudeness and arrogance and selfishness, the warmest, most loving, most _thoughtful_ man John has ever met. John still relishes when Sherlock’s eyes light up with childlike interest and curiosity, when he curls up against John’s back in their bed and lays his head on his lap in his couch. A sharp remark is now followed by a soft, loving smile more often than not.

 

Not that the sharp remarks have diminished any. Sherlock is most certainly still Sherlock, still lazy and impetuous and an absolute bear to be around when he enters one of his black moods. He still sulks and scowls and insults everyone in sight, including John. John still regularly needs to leave the flat for “air,” to escape when he needs just _one goddamn meal without worrying about being inadvertently poisoned, Sherlock!_ But he always stops now to make sure Sherlock knows he’ll be back soon. And he usually is; John hasn’t slept without Sherlock next to him since that first night. Even if Sherlock doesn’t usually sleep, he’s always been content to nestle against John’s side.

 

And John never wanted that to change. If it ever did, he really wouldn’t be the Sherlock John grew to adore so completely. John loves every wonderful and infuriating part of Sherlock.

 

John sees them all, all the facets of his perfect, wonderful Sherlock, while he watches him slowly and gently unwrap every delicate ornament in the box. He’s separating them, organizing them in some obscure pattern that makes perfect sense to him but that John could never understand and would result in a sneer if he ever asked for an explanation. _Indexing_ , John thinks, chuckling, as he goes back into the sitting room and retrieves their tumblers of scotch.

 

Sherlock looks over at him as he sits on the floor, all wide eyes and silky, tousled curls. The sharp lines and planes of his face are sharpened by the low light in the sitting room, but he looks soft and mild. Or perhaps it’s just the emotion of the moment: the two of them sitting in their warm flat, snow falling outside and preparing to decorate their first real Christmas tree for their first real Christmas as what they should have been since the moment they met.

 

John sets their refilled drinks on the rug and reaches out to card his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. They get caught in the not-yet-dry curls, disheveled and tangled from when John had tousled it earlier. John tugs lightly, and Sherlock turns to give him an annoyed look for disrupting his concentration.

 

“Oh, stop it,” John chuckles, leaning down to kiss the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “You love when I touch your hair. Now,” he moves Sherlock’s tumbler closer to where he’s sitting, “drink your scotch while I get the

lights.”

 

***********

John takes a sip of the Glenfidditch and makes a face.  It’s warm going down, but…that’s it.

 

“It tastes like 10-quid scotch,” he frowns.  “It tastes like what we used to drink in uni.”  John looks up to Sherlock, who is smacking his lips and scrunching his nose at the glass in his hand. They made their way through the first bottle of Glenlivet, and decided to open the bottle Mycroft gave them as a congratulations-on-finally-consummating-what-we-all-knew-anyway gift. John had been shocked when he discovered the five-figure price tag, but Sherlock merely shrugged, as if Mycroft owed it to them anyway. Sherlock looks like a five-year-old hesitantly nibbling at Brussel sprouts while he stares at his glass.

 

The warm burst in John’s chest doesn’t exactly take him by surprise.

 

Sherlock is very clearly drunk.  He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, and the extra tail of fairy lights from their small tree is draped through his hair and across his shoulders, giving him the very (unrealistic) appearance of having a halo.  His cheeks and the tip of his nose have warmed a lovey pink from the liquor, and in the muted light of the sitting room, backed by sparkling fairy lights and the shine of ornaments, he looks soft and ethereal, as if he came from another plane of existence.  Rumpled t-shirt and worn pyjama pants aside.

 

John feels a lump rise in his throat, and it hits him, again, that this beautiful, infuriating creature is his. Completely, one-hundred percent his.

 

“John, Mycroft wasted his money. This is aw—” Sherlock looks up to find John staring at him, open-mouthed.  “What?” He asks, his nose crumpling again in that way that is only his, a way that always makes John want to press his lips between his eyebrows.

 

“Nothing, love,” John smiles slightly. “But you’re adorable. Terrible scotch aside.”

 

Instead of rolling his eyes and admonishing John for being ridiculous, Sherlock’s cheeks flush a deeper pink and he smiles, looking down at his lap. “You’re adorable, too, John.”

 

John laughs warmly, a deep laugh he feels in his core. Yep, Sherlock is definitely drunk.   The bashful, sweet-natured Sherlock will come out now, ready and willing to bask in the ridiculous praise and pet-names that will spill freely from John’s lips in his also inebriated state.

 

“You’re a goddamn vision, you know,” John drains his (not very good) Glenfidditch and sets the tumbler aside, before crawling over to Sherlock. “You look like an elf,” he takes Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Or an angel.” John plants kisses on each of Sherlock’s shark cheek bones, tongue darting out briefly, before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s right ear. “My Christmas angel.”

 

Sherlock giggles against John’s face, and John can actually feel the heat as his ears redden. Although he loves Sherlock all the time, this is one is his favorite. Soft and pliant and just a tad bit clingy, willing to allow John to say or doing anything he wants to him.

 

“You’re drunk,” John chuckles, pulling the string of lights from his curly hair.

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

“Yes, you are,” John pulls back to look at Sherlock’s face. “I just called you a ‘Christmas angel,’ and all you did is giggle. You are drunk, Sherlock, my love.”

 

“Mmmm….mayyyybeeee,” Sherlock drawls, pushing his face into John’s neck and rubbing, much like a cat. A very large cat who can speak and who John finds positively delectable right now. “Are you going to take advantage of me, Dr. Watson?”

 

Sherlock, in addition to being more receptive to John’s excessive adoration when he’s drunk, also becomes much more direct himself, openly flirting and teasing John back. John loves it.

 

“Do you want me to?”

 

“Nooooo,” Sherlock licks at the skin at the neck of John’s jumper. “I want to take advantage of YOU.”

 

“Do you now?” John buries both hands in the hair on the back of Sherlock’s head and pulls him up so they’re face to face. “I certainly wouldn’t argue with being taken advantage by such a beautiful Christmas an—ok, I can’t even say it.” John bursts into laughter, snickering at the ridiculousness of that particular platitude. “Come here, you gorgeous thing.”

 

Sherlock goes easily as John pulls his face up to capture his mouth. Sherlock’s lips open easily and John’s tongue pushes inside, probing eagerly into Sherlock’s warm, wet mouth. He tastes like lasagna and scotch and _Sherlock_ , and John wonders, as he usually does when they’re like this, how he survived so long without this. How he survived those two years when he thought Sherlock was dead.

 

Sherlock’s tongue is winding around John’s into his mouth, breath hot and heavy. He’s doing his best to climb all over John, and John soon finds himself on his back on the rug as Sherlock’s mouth moves wet and heavy down his chin to his neck.

 

“Mmmm…too many _clothes!_ ” Sherlock exclaims, pulling his mouth off John’s skin and pushing his large hands up under John’s flannel button-down. His fingertips are slight cold against John’s skin—Sherlock has a mild case of Raynaud’s disease, John is certain—and he shivers slightly. Sherlock strokes the soft hairs around John’s nipples just briefly, before removing them and starting to work at the buttons of John’s shirt. When he’s finished, John opens his eyes and lifts his shoulders up slightly so Sherlock can pull it off.

 

John’s breath catches when he sees Sherlock. Again. He’s straddling John’s hips, the weight of his arse pushing uncomfortably—and delightfully—against his swelling erection, curls falling haphazardly over his face and backlit by the fairy lights on their tree. He’s shed his dressing gown but as far as John’s concerned is still wearing far too many clothes as well.

 

“What about you?” John sighs as Sherlock’s hands run reverently over his chest and belly, long delicate fingers coming up to trace gently around the scar on his shoulder. John has always been self-conscious in the face of Sherlock’s undeniable beauty; short and a bit too soft around the middle, left shoulder marred by a purple and silver crater. Even Sherlock’s bullet scar is perfect compared to John’s. But Sherlock has never mentioned John’s imperfections if he’s ever noticed them, and John has never felt more immense than when he does while Sherlock is touching him. Sherlock touches him as if his skin is the most precious thing in the universe, fingers trembling slightly as Sherlock works to tactually memorize every plane and dip of his body. For all Sherlock’s fear and disbelief over what they are now, John is equally amazed and bemused that someone as exquisite as Sherlock would ever desire someone like him.

 

“Mmmm…not important,” Sherlock retorts, long fingers squirming under John’s arms as his thumbs press into his nipples.

 

“It’s important to me, gorgeous,” John reaches to pinch what little flesh is over Sherlock’s bony hip, then drags his hand south to wrap his fingers around the throbbing flesh in Sherlock’s cotton pyjama pants. Sherlock jumps slightly, and John hisses as Sherlock’s backside scoots against the tent in the front of his jeans.

 

“NO!” Sherlock wraps one hand tightly around John’s wrist, halting the movement of his hand. “I’m taken advantage of you, John. Remember?”

 

“Well, beautiful boy, it’s hard not to be distracted looking up at you like this.”

 

“Then I won’t torment you anymore,” Sherlock smirks, and scoots down to between John’s thighs faster than a drunk man of almost two meters should be able to.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock!” John huffs in laughter that quickly turns to a moan as Sherlock quickly presses his face directly into the zip of John’s jeans, nuzzling and mouthing at the hard flesh trapped in denim. “Sher-sh-Sherlock…”

 

“Mmmm…I know, John,” John feels long, deft fingers undoing the button and pulling the zipper down. “Up,” Sherlock demands, meaning John’s hips, and he lifts them so Sherlock can fumble his jeans and pants down his legs. The air of the flat is cool against his bare cock, stiff and hot, but before John has more than a moment to register it he is engulfed in warm, wet silk as Sherlock swallows him down to the base.

 

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock…” John moans as he feels Sherlock’s soft palate quiver as he fights his gag reflex. “Don’t hurt yourself, darling…”

 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock rumbles around John’s cock, sucking up and swiping his tongue around the glans, pressing into the slit. John can feel fluid seep out into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock is delightfully enthusiastic while performing oral sex, seeming to relish sucking John off as much as John relishes receiving it, and it never lasts very long. Just the thought of that smart, smug mouth, those full lips, wrapped around John’s cock is enough to push him over the edge in minutes.

 

John pushes himself up on his elbows so he can watch Sherlock’s dark head bob up and down on his erection. Sherlock’s curls are falling over his face, blocking John’s view of his mouth wrapped around his throbbing prick, but he can feel it, God, he can feel it, feel his rough tongue rubbing along the underside of his shaft, feel his hot cheeks hollow as he sucks fervently. John can see it in his mind’s eye, and suddenly he’s close, so close, and he almost loses it as Sherlock dips low again, his nose actually coming into contact with John’s pelvic bone, buried in the short, wiry hairs there.

 

“Sherlock! Sherlock, you gotta stop, sweetheart,” John reaches out and grips Sherlock’s hair, gently pulling him up and off his cock. Sherlock looks up at him in confusion, silver eyes wide and sparkling in the muted light of the tree. His lips are red and swollen, a bit of drool running down his chin. His hand is now wrapped around the base of John’s cock, which glistens with saliva in the light. It’s a beautiful sight, achingly beautiful and as arousing as John has ever seen, and he feels a twitch in his cock and can see as a drop of fluid appears on his glans. Sherlock plays dirty, he always does when John manages to get him in this place, usually drunk and high on praise and endearments, and so his tongue darts out to catch the new drop of pre-come, looking slyly up at John under heavily-hooded eyes.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock…you don’t play fair, you gorgeous bastard. _Come here,_ ” John pulls Sherlock up his body by his hair, snagging his lips in a wet, wild kiss. He can taste the tangy saltiness of his own secretions on Sherlock’s tongue, and instead of producing disgust as it might have in the past—did in the past, really, when he would avoid kissing girlfriends immediately after receiving oral sex—it’s exhilarating, remarkably arousing, to taste himself mingled with Sherlock. Because it’s evidence that they’re here, that this is happening, and that his penis was just in Sherlock’s mouth.

 

For all John has opened Sherlock up, taken his hand and led him into a world he’d never experienced before, Sherlock has in turn lit something in John, enticed and encouraged absolutely filthy thoughts and desires he’d never had before. And he wants to do them all, now, on the rug in the sitting room in front of their first Christmas tree. He wants to touch and taste and take Sherlock, completely, mark him and own him and taste every part of him. Certainly he’s done it before, bit and licked and sucked on every inch of Sherlock’s skin, but it’s never lost its appeal, never stopped being as magical as the first time, and John is sure it never will.

 

As he sucks hard on Sherlock’s tongue, John is sure he will never live long enough to have his fill of him.

 

“I want to taste you,” John groans, ripping his mouth away from Sherlock with effort, to suck and nibble on the pale, white skin of his neck. John sucks hard, hard enough that Sherlock will wake up with a lovely bruise, his teeth pressing softly into the flesh. “I want to taste all of you. I want to fuck you.”

 

“John,” Sherlock sighs, his fingers pressing hard into John’s sides.

 

“Say I can, my love,” John bites Sherlock’s earlobe. “Say I can ravish you, worship you. Fuck you right into the floor.”

 

“Yes, John, yes.”

 

“Good,” John growls, and in one fluid motion, he rolls Sherlock over onto his back. John wastes no time in liberating Sherlock from his t-shirt and pyjama pants, all but ripping them off in his desire to get at Sherlock’s flesh.

 

Once again, John’s breath catches at the image of Sherlock once he is entirely nude beneath him. His porcelain skin is flushed and mottled, covered in a sheen of clean sweat. His small pink nipples are already peaked and hard, and Sherlock bucks underneath him when John briefly reaches to pinch them both. His penis is fully engorged and flushed, the foreskin fully pulled back to reveal a red glans that’s glistening with pre-come. It’s lying flat and stiff against his flat belly, that belly that is so much warmer and softer than it looks, and John runs his hand up it, palming it gently, just to hear Sherlock’s moan.

 

“John…”

 

“Fuck, Sherlock, you’re so fucking beautiful,” John reaches out and presses a finger to the silvery-purple scar just below Sherlock’s sternum. It healed well and clean, but it’s covered now by a neat set of teeth-marks, the result of a rather intense emotional outburst in which John bit hard, breaking the skin and drawing blood, in an effort to cover the scar, over-write it with his own mark, erase the still aching memories of when he almost lost Sherlock. Again. It always gives him pause, just for a moment, until his eyes focus on the small, white bite marks and he can reassure himself that Sherlock is here, and alive, and John had the chance to put his own brand over the one his murderous, ex-wife left there.

 

He can’t stop himself now, looking down at Sherlock, ruffled and debauched, and he feels the fear of loss rising in his throat, tears prickling behind his eyes. How many miracles has Sherlock given him? Two? Three? When will they run out? Will, sometime when they’re running through the streets of London, a human piece of filth finally get a blade, or a bullet, in his precious Sherlock and take him away for good, forever this time? Will the specter of Moriarty finally descend, decide it’s time to end his sick game and rip his precious Sherlock away for good?

 

John’s face crumples and the image of Sherlock blurs as tears fill his eyes. He reaches out, gently, and strokes one finger over the scar, wishing he could take it all away, wishing he could take them away. Lock them both in a fortress somewhere, to live out the rest of their days alone, safe, wrapped up in each other without the threat of anyone or anything ever trying to separate them again. He barely survived the first time; in fact, sometimes John wonders if he only managed to make it through those two years because he knew, somewhere deep inside, that Sherlock was still alive somewhere. That the world still held light, that John just had to hold out long enough for it to come back to him.

 

But Sherlock, sharp, perceptive Sherlock (even when he’s drunk), reaches up and places one large hand over John’s on his abdomen.

 

“John,” he says, his voice losing the playful air of a few moments ago. His eyes sharpen immediately, clear and silver in the sparkling light. “I’m right here.”

 

“I-I know,” John chokes, and reaches up to rub his right eye before tears can fall freely. “I just—sometimes, I just—”

 

“I know, John,” Sherlock brings the hand resting on his chest up to his mouth, gently kisses John’s palm. “But I’m here. And it’s Christmas.”

 

John huffs out a small bit of strangled laughter. “Yes, love, it is. And only good Christmases I said, didn’t I?”

 

“You did,” Sherlock kisses him palm again. “You also said,” the frisky tone returns, just as quickly as it left, “that you were going to fuck me into the floor.”

 

“I did, say that, didn’t I?” John forces away the fear and heartbreak, forces himself to focus on the absolutely stunning man beneath him, who’s his and always has been, and who is in this moment staring up at him with a hunger that takes his breath away. John takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his, and leans over him as he raise them above his head to pin them to the floor. “But I have some other things I have to do first…”

 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock purrs before John licks into his mouth, cutting off the rumble of pleasure. “My sweet boy,” he nibbles at Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Your mouth tastes so good.” John wiggles his hips against Sherlock’s, hissing as their erections catch on each other’s. “I bet the rest of you tastes just as good…”

 

John licks down Sherlock’s chin to his neck, sucking on the dark purple mark he left there earlier, before continuing down his chest, mouthing over the smattering of hair there. Sherlock’s chest hair delights John; he doesn’t have much of it, just a bit over his sternum and around his nipples, but it’s delightful. John has been fascinated by it from day one; for some reason, he’d always had the ridiculous notion in his mind that ethereal, otherworldly Sherlock was devoid of body hair, wraithlike, but seeing it reminds John that Sherlock is very human and very there and very much his. The soft hair tickles his lips as he sucks ones pink nipple into his mouth, feeling Sherlock arch under him and hearing a sound not unlike a mewl escape his lips.

 

John moves lower, pausing to kiss and swirl his tongue over the bullet scar, reminding himself again that it’s alright, that Mary’s bullet didn’t take Sherlock away, and that overwrote the scar with his own teeth. He erased the mark. Sherlock’s fingers dig painfully into John’s back as he moves on, down the soft, warm belly to more soft hair and Sherlock’s erection bumps into his chin, hot and hard and leaking.

 

“Mmmm,” John licks the head of Sherlock’s cock, sucking the salty fluid that’s gathered there into his mouth. He looks up and winks. “I actually think you taste better down here…”

 

“John,” Sherlock breathes, then his head falls back to the floor with a *clunk* as John slides down his entire cock, sucking hard, before pulling up and nipping softly at his foreskin.

 

“Yes, love?” John murmurs against the underside of his shaft, his mouth moving lower, tonguing over the soft skin of his scrotum and sucking one testicle into his mouth. Sherlock doesn’t answer save a few strangled, breathy sighs as his fingers bury themselves in John’s hair and his thighs fall open farther, a silent entreaty for John to go lower, to continue the ministrations of his mouth on the sensitive knot of muscle beneath his perineum.

 

“Yes, of course, love,” John chuckles and reaches to lift Sherlock’s thighs apart and back, exposing him completely. His buttocks and perineum are glistening with sweat in the glow of the fairy lights, his tight hole pink and already twitching in anticipation. John lowers his mouth, sucking softly, then harder as Sherlock moans and arches off the floor, fingers digging painfully into John’s skull. Clean sweat and soap, and the heady, earthy smell of Sherlock’s precome almost make John high with arousal, his head swimming as he swirls his tongue against the soft skin of the tight muscle, probing gently at first then harder, until he is all but fucking Sherlock with his tongue. Sherlock is moaning above him, close to sobbing, when John gives one final firm suck before pulling away.

 

“John…”

 

“Mmmm, yes love?” He bites softly at Sherlock’s perineum, then sucks harder, the sudden image of a bruise sucked into the soft, secret place making his throbbing cock twitch and seep out pre-ejaculate.

 

“Please, you—you said you’d—”

 

“Yes, I did, didn’t I, gorgeous?” John teases, pushing himself up on his elbows, and deftly sliding one finger into Sherlock’s hole, slick with his saliva and sweat and loosened just a bit. Sherlock’s sphincter twitches and grasps at the invasion, but John simply crooks upwards, reaching around the slight bend and finding the spongy mass of swollen tissue amidst the rest of the smooth velvet. He pushes slightly, and is met with a strangled cry as Sherlock’s hips lift off the floor.

 

“Please,” Sherlock’s hands fall away from John’s head to the floor, clawing at the rug. One foot as found its way to John’s back, and his toes are clenching against his lats.

 

“Alright, darling,” John quickly removes his finger, perhaps too quickly, because Sherlock hisses and jumps. He pulls away to crawl over to the sofa and dig for the bottle of lube stashed beneath Sherlock’s bee pillow.

 

“No, John, now,” Sherlock keens when John severs their contact. “Please, I don’t need—”

 

“Yes, you do, darling,” John quickly slicks his fingers as his awkwardly shuffles back to Sherlock is sprawled on the floor, open and desperate and wanting. He strokes over the still tight furl of muscle. “I wouldn’t want to damage this beautiful thing, would I?” John presses one finger, then a second, into Sherlock, eliciting a hiss of breath. John sighs as his fingers push in to the hilt, deeply satisfied even only having this part of himself buried in the tight heat of Sherlock’s body.

 

“Oh, OH! John, John…please…”

 

“I know, Sherlock, I know,” John leans forward, gently presses his lips to Sherlock’s. The kiss is almost chaste, in contrast to John’s fingers rocking in and out of Sherlock’s tight opening, twisting and scissoring, loosening the muscle and brushing against his prostate on every pass. John still loves those kisses, soft and a brief touch of lips, reminiscent of the first time he kissed Sherlock, alone and sore and cold in the abandoned building. It sends sparks through his belly now just as it did then. John is sure it always will.

 

When he pulls back to look at Sherlock, it’s more than John can take. His eyes are closed, flush mottled up his chest to his face, breathing hard through his open mouth. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” John breathes, and gives one last scissor of his fingers before pulling them quickly out, and fumbling with the bottle of lube to quickly slick his cock. John positions himself, then leans back over Sherlock, gently stroking his sharp cheekbone. “Sherlock, sweetheart,” John murmurs against red, swollen lips. “Open your eyes, love, look at me.”

 

Sherlock obeys, his eyes opening and staring steadily into John’s, holding his gaze as John’s hips push forward, his thick, throbbing cock pushing into snug heat. It feels the way it always does, perfect, and John’s eyes fall closed as every ounce of him fights the urge to surge forward, to thrust hard into the hot, tight canal snug around his dick. Nothing, no one, has ever felt like this. It transcends the physical, moves behind the fact that John’s erect penis is pushed snug inside Sherlock’s rectum. It’s beyond that. They’re one. It never ceases to amaze. John sucks in a hard breath and forces his eyes open to see that Sherlock’s have closed as well. “Look at me, Sherlock.”

 

He does, and John sees the universe in Sherlock’s eyes, sees adoration and trust and _hope_ , and he knows, KNOWS, that this is it. As he did that first night they spent together. The way he knows when Sherlock sinks into him, the pinch and deeply satisfying fullness. This is home. Sherlock is his home, and he is Sherlock’s. They belong like this, together, one, in every which way it’s possible.

 

“Come here,” John threads his fingers through the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head, tugs hard, pulling him up so he’s bent and half sitting in John’s arms. “Look. Look at that, Sherlock,” John angles Sherlock’s head down so he can see them, joined together. It’s no different than any other time, and yet every time is new, different, a surprise.

 

“John…”

 

“Look, Sherlock,” John breathes, still grasping Sherlock’s mess of curls, forcing him to observe, as he runs his other hand beneath Sherlock’s scrotum, around his tightly stretched sphincter. The muscle is pulled smooth and red, raw with the invasion and slippery with lube. “Look.” John’s fingers stroke around where he’s invading Sherlock’s body, then tugs at his scrotum, pulling it back so he can get a clear view.

 

“John,” his name is a breathy sigh on Sherlock’s lips, just this side of a choked cry, lovely and sweet and conveying all the emotions John couldn’t put a name to if he tried.

 

“I know, Sherlock,” John breathes, continuing to stroke around Sherlock’s stretched hole, savoring the feel of tight skin and twitching muscle against his fingertips. “I’m inside you.”

 

“Yes. Always,” Sherlock squeaks in reply, high-pitched as he trembles, scrabbling at John’s bicep in an attempt to stay upright. His reaches one hand down, stroking the root of John’s shaft and the soft curls on his pubis, then brushes his fingertips over his perineum, around the taut invasion of John’s body in his own as his hole gives a twitch. “Oh. _Ohhh.”_

 

“I know, love,” John threads their fingers together, then lifts his head just as Sherlock lifts his. Their eyes meet and Sherlock gives a tiny, strained smile as John guides him down onto his back again. John’s fingers are still tangled in Sherlock’s hair, tugging lightly and massaging against his scalp. “I’m going to move now, ok?” John is and always will be a caretaker, will always make sure Sherlock is alright before moving.

 

“Ok—OH!” Sherlock arches off the floor as John begins to rock, slowly at first, then faster as Sherlock’s feet press into his back.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John exhales hard, one hand braced on the bed beside Sherlock’s head, the other still gripping Sherlock’s curls, as if they were the only anchor keeping him on earth. “Fuck…you’re so tight, so _hot…_ how…how are you like this, so beautiful, so perfect—”

 

“John…”

 

“Yes…you. So perfect. So perfect, for me,” John leans down and pulls Sherlock’s face to his, licking blindly over his chin, cheeks, until he finds his mouth. “You’re mine…you’re the most exquisite creature in the universe and you _belong to me_ ,” John thrusts harder, eliciting a cry of combined pain and pleasure from the man beneath him. “MINE. I’ve loved you for so long, I love you as much as I did that first day, I love you more….fuck, Sherlock…”

 

It’s almost too much. It’s pleasure John has felt before, but will never tire of: tight, hot flesh around him, Sherlock’s squirming body beneath him, his long fingers pulling and scratching and John’s flesh. Sherlock’s eyes are open, hazy and staring blankly, his mouth slack with pleasure, and his breath is raspy and uneven. The light from the Christmas tree is throwing strange shadows around the room and across Sherlock’s trim frame, bathing him in light, the thin sheen of sweat on his skin sparkling. Sherlock’s breath is hot on John’s face, and moist, and John wants to pull it in as he thrusts, absorb it all, suck the breath from Sherlock’s lungs then give it back. He wants to share his breath, to take and return and reinforce that _he_ is the one who gives Sherlock life, that it’s _he_ who makes him feel like this, and that _he’ll_ be the only person allowed to witness this, the absolute rapt pleasure on Sherlock’s face, the only one who is allowed to provide it. It’s every disgusting, trite notion of lovemaking ever known, like something out of a romance novel, but it’s tinged with something primitive and barbaric. Possessive. In this moment, John knows he possesses Sherlock completely, all of him, and he’ll die before he gives it up.

 

It’s like this every time. John knows it always will be.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock…”

 

“John,” Sherlock’s whine is almost pitiful, and it sends sharp-tinged sparks straight to John’s heart, flooding down his chest and stomach, straight into his testicles. John shifts slightly, pushing back and dragging one of Sherlock’s long legs over his arm, and is rewarded with a scream, an absolute sob of submission and pleasure, as Sherlock’s head falls back against the rug and his fingers dig painfully into John’s back with the new angle. John is so hard and full and he fears he may split Sherlock down the middle.

 

“That’s it…” he breathes, thrusting harder, absolutely pounding into the sleek, tight body beneath him. “That’s it, my beautiful, perfect man…”

 

“John…” every moan from Sherlock’s lips sends a jolt of electricity straight to John’s scrotum, sends it tightening and twitching, and he knows he won’t last much longer, pounding into Sherlock, feeling his pulse, every tremor of his body and ripple of his muscles, so he reaches with the hand not still buried in Sherlock’s hair for his cock, hot and wet and leaking, and strokes hard, once, twice.

 

“Come on, love. I want to feel it. I want to feel you around me,” John can barely breathe, the pleasure winding higher and tighter in his gut, starting at his toes and curling through his body. “I want to watch your beautiful face…I want to feel you clench, see you…Sherlock…do you know how beautiful you are? How much I loved you, LOVE you?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes open at the question, locking with John’s. They’re wide, pupils pitch black and blown, staring in amazement, in surprise, adoration with a hint of shamed sadness. “I didn’t, I don’t…” Sherlock chokes. “I didn’t know…John, please…I—I—”

 

“I won’t ever leave you. Never, Sherlock. I’ll never give this up.”

 

“John…”

 

“That’s it, let go for me, Sherlock…” John growls and squeezes once more up Sherlock’s hot shaft and that does it, Sherlock arches as his body clamps down around John’s cock, rippling contractions over and over as jets of come streak over John’s hand and onto his belly. Sherlock’s head is thrown back, a plaintive whimper on his lips, and John’s fingers tighten in his curls as he’s pushed over the edge, erupting hot and wet inside Sherlock’s body, three, four bursts of semen. It’s quite a bit, hot and heavy, and he can feel it slick out of Sherlock’s body as he thrusts through it, dripping down over his scrotum and thighs. The orgasm violently pulls all the energy from his body, and John collapses onto Sherlock before his body finishes convulsing, and they lie in a tangled heap, Sherlock still shaking and trembling beneath him, his anus still twitching and squeezing softly and John tries to come back to himself, tries to pull himself together so he can be there for the entirety of the experience, feel the crest and fall, sink into the blissful glow and jointly relish the surge of chemicals that follows release.

 

He can’t though. John’s climax wrung him thoroughly to his core and for a few moments all he can do is lay on top of Sherlock’s trembling form, fingers squeezing in his hair, while he tries to draw a deep breath. He can barely feel it when one of Sherlock’s legs comes up to wrap around the back of his thigh, and is only faintly aware when long fingers begin stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.

 

When John finally comes back to himself, his face is pressed against Sherlock’s neck, and large hands are running up and down his back, gently tracing and swirling around the definition of muscle. He turns his head slightly and sees the blurry outline of their small fireplaces, two empty glass tumblers set on the floor, reflecting the light of a Christmas tree. Their sitting room slowly comes back into focus, albeit from a vantage point John is not used to seeing. Sherlock’s pulse is thrumming beneath his forehead, his chest rising and falling under John’s.

 

Before he can stop it, John feels a deep, hearty burst of laughter rise in his chest. He laughs into Sherlock’s neck, his body shaking against the smooth, damp skin beneath him. It’s a joyful laugh as his brain recognizes and files away his surroundings.

 

It hits him again, all over, that he is happy, and he laughs again, then pushes himself up to look down at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock’s face is relaxed and peaceful, his eyes still a bit cloudy with alcohol but also with the intense satisfaction that follows a particularly satisfying orgasm.

 

“Hi,” he murmurs, smiling up at John with soft ease. It’s a look John doesn’t see all the time, and he relishes it whenever and however he can.

 

“Hi,” John smiles back, gently kissing still-swollen lips. “Sorry about that, love.”

 

“Mmmm?”

 

“Got a bit lost.”

 

“Sss’ok.” Sherlock’s eyes close again, and his shoulders settle back against the rug. One large palm presses against the back of John’s head, pulling him back down to the crook of his neck.

 

“This is quickly going to be uncomfortable,” but John follows nonetheless, and settles against Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“Hrmph.”

 

John sinks into Sherlock’s embrace, their warm bodies pressed together. “Not a bad start for our first real Christmas.”

 

“No,” Sherlock sighs, a bit plaintively. “But they’ll always be like this.” He pauses. “Won’t they, John?”

 

“Yes, my love. They will. I’d like nothing more. But next year I’ll remember mistletoe.”

 

“Merry Christmas, John.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This mirrors my first experience with single-malt scotch that cost almost $1000. It tasted like the shit we used to run through filters when I was in undergrad. So not worth the money.


End file.
